


Counterfact

by double_blind



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Counterfactual Thinking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous Memory Gun Exploitation, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, POV Outsider, Rick and Morty are in a passionate healthy romantic relationship, Secret Relationship, Shipper Summer's origin story, Summer knows and its killing her, not beta read we die like men!!!, the angst is wholly Summer's bc Rick and Morty are too busy being in love w/each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/double_blind/pseuds/double_blind
Summary: It would’ve easier. It would’ve beenso much easierif something else was wrong. If Rick was some lecherous, scummy old man creeping on her innocent little brother. If Morty was just fucked in the head and taking advantage of Rick’s near-constant inebriation. If they didn’t thrive so well together, somehow inspiring the best in each other despite the fact that they were both terrible train wrecks apart.If they weren’t so willing.If they weren’t sohappy.Summer’s clever enough to see the truth and kind enough to suffer for it.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 20
Kudos: 172





	Counterfact

**Author's Note:**

> _**“Counterfactual thinking** is a concept in psychology that involves the human tendency to create possible alternatives to life events that have already occurred; something that is contrary to what actually happened… These thoughts consist of the "What if?" and the "If I had only..." that occur when thinking of how things could have turned out differently.”_

Summer was pretty sure her grandpa was dicking down her little brother. More than pretty sure, actually. 

What she wasn’t so sure about, though, was why she kept letting it happen.

* * *

She didn’t know when they actually started all this. They could’ve gotten together months before she first started noticing, eventually getting too comfortable, too careless to properly cover their tracks. Or, maybe they were a recent thing, and Morty was just crap at keeping things on the downlow, somehow managing to drag Grandpa Rick down with him a few times too many.

She doesn’t know who initiated it between them, either. Who made the first move and what served as the catalyst that unearthed it all. Did Morty have some sick sort of crush on Rick, inspired by his already uncomfortably unique connection with him? Had Rick been the first to fall, coveting his grandson with a twisted take on his own brand of familial affection? Or was it neither, and their relationship was forcefully made to warp itself through some weird alien fuck-or-die situation beyond their control?

Summer spent more time than she would’ve cared to speculating on all the unknown variables of it. She hated thinking about it, hated knowing that two of the most prominent people in her life were debauching themselves in such a way, but just like how human brains are wired to hinge upon the most repellent concepts, she couldn’t shake them and the moral implications of their coupling out of her mind. While she could go over all the cliché, disgusting, and wrath-inducing scenarios out there, agonizing over them each, they paled in comparison to the one devastating possibility that Summer knew, deep in her gut, to be true.

They just… fell in love. 

It was probably as simple as that. Simple and mundane, yet strangely fitting. Just like any other romantic couple out there, they learned more about each other and their hearts clicked into place, reshaped by the profundity of their acquaintance. The synergy they exhibited around each other during the select few adventures Summer had accompanied them on in the past was proof enough to how well they seemed to mesh, how effortlessly their existences complemented each other. They were probably attracted to that, and then, eventually, to one another.

Pure, honest-to-god love. The likeliest reality, unfitting in its innocence.

Nothing terrified Summer more.

* * *

The first hint took place after Summer tried to sneak back home in the dead of night. It had been an eventful evening of sorts. She hung out with some cool, punk teens who offered to teach her how to snort cocaine. Unfortunately, they ran out of coke before she could join them and their dealer was out of town, so she just got high off pot instead. They baked the weed into some really tasty brownies, at least, so it wasn’t as much of a loss as she was initially inclined to believe.

She might’ve been high off her ass when she managed to quietly creep into the house and ascend the stairs, yes, but she still knew that the conversation she ended up inadvertently eavesdropping on wasn’t some sort of hallucination. She hadn’t misheard a thing. Morty’s bedroom door was cracked open—most likely left ajar after Rick’s drunken fumbling—and the sounds from within traveled through to her ears with relative ease amidst the quiet of the night.

They weren’t fucking or anything. Summer eventually managed to discover that they were physically involved later on, but she never actually caught them in the act beyond hearing a few distant, stifled moans, thank _god_. This conversation was somehow worse than that, though. It felt far more intimate than some hot and heavy groping.

“Y-You know I hate it when you talk like that, Rick!” Morty whispered, frustrated. It’s what drove Summer to stop and listen in the first place, always curious to pick up on whatever crazy, world-ending drama the two might be contending with. That, and her feet were hurting. Her new flats, while fashionable, pinched at her toes.

“Well, you just have to s-suOURGHck it up, Morty, because it’s true,” Rick’s gruff voice replied. “I-It’s bound to happen sometime. You’re grandpa’s gon—going to kick the, the proverbial bucket sometime, kid. You’ll outlive me. Face it.”

“You’re a genius. You can do like, literally a- _anything_ , and, and you’re telling me you’re going to let yourself die of _old age?”_

“What? S’there some other, faster way you want me to go?”

“Huh?”

“You telling me I-I should’ve kept my original, much awesome-er plans of dying in explosive, violent blazes of glory in-instead of compromising so I could spend more time with you?”

“N—“

“Y-Yikes. Ouch. Pretty—Starting to sound pretty harsh right now, Morty.”

Morty sighed, soft and shaky. Perhaps a little exasperated, even, Summer thought. A little sad, she belatedly realized. 

“That’s not it,” he said, weak. “I-I don’t want you to go at all.”

“That’s—That’s...” There was a pause. Barely a second long. When Rick regained his train of thought, his voice almost seemed hesitant, wavering slightly before it adopted its customary indecorum once more. “That’s a nice sentiment, Morty, really… But it’s fuckin’ stupid. Immortality sucks balls. L-Living forever isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I-I-I know. I’m… I’m not saying forever, Rick. Not _forever_ forever. Just long enough, y’know?” Morty paused for a moment. Summer imagined something happened there, maybe an embrace of some sort. A hug, a nuzzle. Some movement accompanying the rustling she heard, because his voice came out a little muffled afterwards. “Long enough for _me,_ at least, Rick. Please? W-Watch me grow up… Stay with me.”

There was a beat of silence there. Rick didn’t reply right away, so Morty spoke up once more. Summer couldn’t catch what he said that time, as it was the softest his voice had become yet, but she could hear, at least, the sincere pleading that composed it. The raw, breathless grief. 

“Alright,” Rick finally said, groaning. “Alright, Morty. J-Jesus. I mean, _fuck,”_ he chuckled, mirthless, “‘m going to cheat death for you, you needy little shit. G-Gonna deny myself the, the one thing I’ve always been guaranteed for your scrawny little ass.”

His words were harsh, but his voice was uncharacteristically gentle, fond in a way the saccharine, paternal tones he directed toward her mother could only ever shallowly mimic. It sent shivers up Summer’s spine, left her stomach churning.

“I’ve already got it figured out,” he breathed. “You—You’re in for it now. You and me, Morty. You and me.”

They probably kept talking for much longer after, but Summer stopped listening. She tiptoed quietly into her room and settled into bed. Her weed-addled survival instincts finally kicked in, and she knew if she listened any more she’d come to regret it somehow. Hell, she might’ve heard too much already.

For a while after the conversation took place, before Summer truly understood the depth of their relationship, she thought it was just some sort of touching scene between a whiny kid and his old-ass grandpa that got a little philosophical. Maybe being high made it more emotional than it actually was, she thought, but that soon changed. While Summer hadn’t been able to fully comprehend the significance of the conversation at the time, she would end up looking back on it in hindsight with trepidation, with an aching, understanding heart. 

She had caught the tail-end of a promise. A proposal.

She had borne witness to the willful deliverance of a veritable god, tempted not by the allure of all eternity, but by the lifespan of a single little boy. 

If she wanted to get real poetic and sucky-uppy, that is.

Rick might have relished in the majesty of his intellectual superiority, of his triumphant, hedonistic existence, but he hated his life. He hated himself. He knew he’d die eventually, as did everything that physically could, and it was a fact he never bothered to deny. After all, why should he? Why, when it tempted him so frequently? When he had nothing he cared enough not to lose?

Death was a relief from the very thing that simultaneously elevated him above every other life form in existence and thrust him into the grody, unwashed pits of despair. Death was a relief from his intellect, his nihilism, his own shitty self.

Now, he didn’t need it. Not yet. 

Not for another hundred years, at least.

* * *

The second hint came in the form of a couple hickeys on Morty’s neck. He came down to eat breakfast one day, still yawning, and their peculiar hues stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his skin. 

Ironically, Summer hadn’t noticed it at first. Her dad did, and, of course, he just had to point it out to the rest of the entire table. 

“Heyyy, are those what I think they are? Oh, I think they aaaare,” he said, sing-songing the last ‘are’ like he hadn’t just used that same word three times in one breath. “Now, I could lecture you about responsibility, but I know they teach you all you need to know about that stuff in school. So, who’s the lucky girl?”

Morty only blinked in confusion, his eyes still dusted with sleep. He must’ve had a late night for his fatigue to carry over so persistently into the next day. 

“Wh-What?”

“The hickeys on your neck, of course,” Jerry clarified, pointing with a sausage-laden fork to a vague spot on his own neck. “I was young once, kids, I know what those are.” 

It seemed to dawn on Morty at that moment, and he flushed completely, tugging at the collar of his shirt to try and obscure the mark. Jerry bit the sausage off before he continued to speak, his mouth still full. “Don’t worry about hiding them, we’ve already seen them. You have to introduce us to your new sweetheart! Is it that Jessica girl I keep hearing you mumbling about?”

He waggled his eyebrows in a way that was probably meant to convey paternal camaraderie, but only made him look like his forehead was having an embarrassingly piss-poor seizure. Summer rolled her eyes at the display, but her gaze drifted to observe Morty anyway, reflexively seeking out the focus of her dad’s good-natured ribbing. She’d essentially be shirking her duties as the older sister if she decided to sit out on an opportunity to tease her baby bro, and a hickey was definitely prime sassy taunt territory.

The obvious blush on his face deserved teasing, too, and, sure enough, there really _were_ a couple hickeys on Morty’s neck. They peeked out from beneath his fingers. He started trying to cover them up with his hands after realizing he probably couldn’t get his t-shirt to do the job.

Beth chimed at that moment. “Oh, Morty… Is my little boy finally growing up?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

Morty looked frantically between his parents for a moment, stuttering. “Th-These aren’t hickeys, I-I-I—they’re just reg—they’re just normal bruises, something from th-the last adventure—“

Summer laughed. “Yeah, Dad, there’s like no way Morty could actually score. He has trouble chatting up his right hand.”

“Hey!” Morty whined. Summer shrugged.

Jerry leapt to Morty’s defense, but it was probably more to protect his own pride at being argued against than his son’s dignity. “He’s a perfectly fine, healthy young man—“

“Yeah, and so is Geoff from algebra, yet everyone still says his warts are diseased, not genetic. You don’t see him getting any dates. People keep stuffing him in the nurse’s office like he’s a nerd and it’s a locker.”

“N-No, Summer, bad analogy,” Rick cut in. “I-I’ve seen that poor fucker walking down the hallowed halls of your educraptional shitstitution and, and while I-I don’t knooUGhrw what the hell is wrong with him, he’s—he’s definitely diseased.”

“Ew! Really? I let him borrow my textbook!”

“Well, y-you better disinfect the, the shit out of that thing when you get it back, then. Ac-Actually, just burn it.”

“Damn it,” Summer frowned, slouching with a huff against her seat as she flicked her ponytail off her shoulder. “That’s what I get for not conforming to the status quo and like, briefly dignifying the untouchables with my above-average presence.”

“Guys, guys! You’re missing the point; this is about Morty and me being right, not—not whoever this Jeff kid is,” Jerry said. “I think I can tell the difference between some sci-fi nonsense and a good, old-fashioned kiss mark.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “You can’t even tell the difference between your own kids and the clo—the robots I occasionally replace them with for my own convenience, _Jerry,”_ he said, scowling. Summer marveled at how Rick never not managed to make her dad’s name sound like an insult in its own right.

“Now, hold it right ther—“

“And I-I-I’ll have you know that those aren’t hickeys, you fucking idiot. They’re blue-ringed suffacoxl sucker sores— _specifically_ from the, the south-eastern synaptic admix variety, might I add, which are _extra_ shitty—a-and Morty didn’t have the greatest time of his life getting them.” Rick punctuated his statements with a few accusatory jabs of his pointer finger, his eyes narrowed in judgement. “H-He’d probably appreciate it if you’d just shut—shut _up_ and table your busybodying for one fucking second so he can overcome the pride-culling embarrassment of that memory in peace.”

Summer whistled, because, wow, that was fast. Grandpa Rick shut Dad down sooner than she expected, instead of wasting a few more minutes lobbing scathing insults like he usually did. Rick shoved some hash browns into his mouth.

“I—I…” Jerry’s indignation began to wane and his gaze shifted from Rick to Morty, who now looked up at his grandfather with something akin to a mixture of relief and exasperation. “Is that true?”

Beth, used to watching her husband flounder, just took a sip of her coffee. Morty, still trying to cover the marks, rubbed a little at the bruised skin.

“Yeah, Dad,” Morty said, responding at the same time as Rick did. His grandpa was louder, however, drowning out the boy's confirmation with his own. 

“Of course it’s true. Y-You think I care enough about what you think to lie to you, Jerry? I have better things to—MouGHRrty, Ch-Christ, kid, stop touching them; you’re making things worse.”

Rick grasped Morty’s wrist, pulling Morty’s hand under the table and away from the bruises. Summer’s eyes followed the motion thoughtlessly, noticing, belatedly and rather apathetically, that both of their hands stayed after coming down. Without Morty worrying at the spots, they remained exposed to the open air, unmistakably visible.

Jerry continued to speak, put-upon by his inadvertent display of inconsiderate nosiness. He apologized to Morty before immediately following it with a forgettable justification of his prying, which he then directed toward the entire family, citing his rightful status as a concerned and caring father. 

Honestly, the whole spiel was pretty valid, but his entitlement made Summer want to refute him regardless. It was the rebellious teen in her, probably.

Anyone could pinpoint exactly when Rick started tuning Jerry out, opting instead to finish eating his breakfast in peace. Beth, noticing the growing lull in her father’s attention and everyone’s general disinterest in Jerry’s blustering, cut off her husband in favor of introducing a new topic of discussion, breathing life back into breakfast.

Eventually, the conversation flowed naturally enough between them that Summer found herself listening to her mother bemoan the tedium of workplace social obligations, exasperated about the most recent addition to her team. It was some guy that wouldn’t leave her alone, whom Rick offered to ‘take care of’ for her, and Summer couldn’t help but snort upon hearing the gist of the situation. It honestly sounded to her like the new guy was some dweeby incel that just had a crush on her mom and sucked shit at doing anything about it. She would’ve pitied the guy for grabbing Rick’s attention enough to have him jump back into the family discussion, but it was a bit of a cucky move to chase after a married woman like that.

Beth was bristling at Rick’s offer, and he was denying her assumptions about murder ( _“It’ll be a quick dea—a, a small, nonlethal can of whoopass at most, sweetie. H-He’ll be back in one piece. Y’know, probably.”),_ when Summer dropped her fork. It fell with a surprisingly light clatter, and no one around her seemed to notice, so she bent down to pick it up with plans to grab a new one after.

She poked her head under the table and that’s how she noticed that Morty and Grandpa Rick were holding hands. 

Much to her surprise, Rick’s large hand lay folded over Morty’s smaller one, his thumb idly stroking Morty’s. Their fingers were thoroughly entwined, hidden well, secure beneath their family’s prying eyes and settled inconspicuously between them.

Resurfacing quickly yet subtly, fork obtained, Summer looked wide-eyed between the two of them. They were both talking animatedly now, and she definitely didn’t miss the fact that they each only gestured with one of their arms.

Summer was about to ask what was up, because surely, there must have been a _reason_ for such a recognizable display of affection—something appropriately platonic and predictably science-y—when suddenly, Rick finished his breakfast and started kicking his chair back. He was crowing about some unknown device off on some hard-to-pronounce alien planet, eyes ablaze with chaos and greed. Ready for another adventure, of course. Morty wasn’t going to be attending class that day. Summer wasn’t going to be asking her questions.

Grandpa Rick pulled Morty along with him and Summer followed the slope of their arms as they stepped into a portal. Rick had Morty by the wrist, but they were no longer holding hands, and she was left to wonder why they had in the first place, why they weren't any more.

Later on that day, after coming back home from school, Summer passed through the kitchen to grab a snack and she spotted them on the couch. She was looking on from the entranceway, their backs to her.

It had been a long, uneventful day for her and by then, she had already forgotten about the hickeys and the hand-holding. She had struck it all up as just some more of their usual brand of weird (because, after all, what was the use in stressing over something she was probably just going to end up blowing way out of proportion?) before turning to more important considerations like whether or not she should text Trey back, or what she should wear to Deniscea’s upcoming birthday party. Deniscea’s parents were _loaded_ and also lax enough about alcohol restrictions that it hinted toward a neglectful yet opulent upbringing, so all-in-all it was shaping up to be a pretty promising night.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the tips of their hair were singed all nice and crispy, Summer might’ve thought that the iconic adventuring duo had spent the entire day on the couch, judging by how contentedly they seemed to lounge upon it. They were sitting pretty close to each other, watching interdimensional cable (a Ball Fondlers season 1 rerun from a universe where everyone had Shrek ears, so nothing she hadn’t seen before) while Rick had his arm across the back of the couch to stretch behind Morty’s shoulders. Morty seemed to lean toward Rick, his body angled in a way that struck Summer as awfully intimate.

What really got to her, though, and made her stop silently in her tracks, was the fact that Rick’s fingers were lightly ghosting over the marks on Morty’s neck. She could’ve ignored the odd couch-closeness, brushing it off with some half-assed excuse, but she couldn’t ignore _this._ Even from behind, the gesture looked too tender to her, too much like a fond caress. Summer caught Morty shiver a little as Rick lightly ran his knuckles over the ‘blue-ringed suffacoxl sucker sores’, and she wondered what happened to the whole _‘stop touching them’_ thing from earlier that morning.

If they weren’t meant to be touched, then what the fuck was he doing now? 

Upon registering this discrepancy, suspicion began to trickle through Summer’s apathy like water seeping through an ominous crack in an artificial dam. She recalled the way Rick’s eyes seemed to linger on her little brother’s bruised skin. Had she mistaken the look in his eyes for something else, something safer?

Was it the fact that Morty had been touching them that bothered Rick, or that Morty had been blocking them from sight? From _Rick’s_ sight?

Summer realized, rather suddenly, that she couldn’t recall seeing the marks on Morty before they went to bed last night. They had both slept late, and she knew this because she was occupying the bathroom before he knocked on the door and demanded she leave so he could take a dump and brush his teeth. Did he get the marks in the middle of the night? Is that why he was still so tired at breakfast? 

Grandpa Rick had been so much quicker than usual to dispel the family’s misunderstandings that morning. Normally, he’d let misunderstandings run their own course as long as they didn’t pester him or endanger the family too irreparably. As long as they didn’t threaten his own plans. After all, they were too much of a hassle for his lazy ass, so why bother?

He had spoken smoothly back then, though, and with just the right amount of vehemence. With rapid, all too natural ease. Everything he said sounded probable. It sounded convincing. Really convincing.

Summer blinked.

Did… Did blue-ringed suffacoxls actually exist?

On impulse, she called out to them casually in greeting, stepping forward as if she had just arrived. They immediately jumped apart. Rick stopped touching Morty and Morty scooted an appropriate distance away, adopting perfectly normal positions all in the span of a second. They were fast. She wouldn’t have seen the difference if she hadn’t already been looking for it.

She shucked her backpack and plopped onto the armchair. “What’re you guys watching?” she asked needlessly.

Excessive gunfire echoed out the living room speakers. On the screen, jeeps flew through the air and landed in exploding piles of vehicular shrapnel. 

“What does it _look_ like?” Rick belched rudely, and Summer’s stomach swooped as her gaze drifted over the two of them, subtly taking stock.

Rick’s fingers twitched. His leg bounced impatiently. He was holding himself back. 

Morty had a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

* * *

It would’ve easier. It would’ve been _so much_ _easier_ if something else was wrong. If Rick was some lecherous, scummy old man creeping on her innocent little brother. If Morty was just fucked in the head and taking advantage of Rick’s near-constant inebriation. If they didn’t thrive so well together, somehow inspiring the best in each other despite the fact that they were both terrible train wrecks apart. 

If they weren’t so willing.

If they weren’t so _happy_.

* * *

The third hint was, in fact, when everything clicked into place. 

But it certainly wasn’t the last. 

There was a fourth, a fifth, a sixth… Accidental pet name Freudian slips, drifting off to sleep on the couch in each other’s arms, sneaking into each others’ rooms to receive late night uncharacteristically tender confessions of love _(they were arguing all day, she remembered. A lover’s spat. Morty was furiously lugging something as he shouldered his way into Rick’s room, before he threw it inside with a clatter loud enough to alert Summer, who was texting nearby. The resulting angry insults, barely suppressed shouts, and smothered crashing sounds of thrown objects gradually gave way to broken-hearted beseeching and Morty’s audible sobbing. That night, Summer heard Rick sincerely apologize for the first time in her life. And, well, if he actually meant it? God forbid. Only Morty. Only ever with him),_ disappearing behind corners and re-emerging minutes later with their lips plump and swollen, Morty turning down a date with Jessica only to reveal he’d made plans with his grandpa, thinly veiled innuendos about sucking each other’s dicks, Rick making promises and actually keeping them… 

The list went on until either Summer stopped counting or the passages began to blur. At some point, she wasn’t sure anymore if the two were still giving off tells or if she was just more paranoid now that she had the full weight of the truth laid bare before her, coloring their every interaction in those illicit, hard-won hues.

Was that look they shot each other from across the room amorous? Could she label them heart eyes with confidence, or would outsiders perceive them as otherwise? When Rick laughed heartily and whooped at one of Morty’s dumbass jokes, was it just because he honestly found them funny, because he wanted to encourage his grandson’s cheekier side, or because his ardor for the boy was just too incessant to allow otherwise?

Morty’s rivalry with Summer about who’d be the best as Grandpa Rick’s adventure sidekick also started looking a bit different, too. Summer never took it seriously (she never _really_ cared about getting whisked away at the oddest hours by some manic geriatric) but she couldn’t tease and vie for the position as coolly as she used to. Morty’s snippy, jealous frustration became all the more enlightening. To her dorky little bro, the position was probably about more than just being a sidekick. It was special, a role meant only for him. Time spent with his secret lover.

Despite how ambiguous everything became for her, though, Summer at least knew that she couldn’t ( _shouldn’t_ , really) be the only person in the family that noticed Rick and Morty’s relationship. Like, her mom might’ve been a rampant alcoholic with a patented Sanchez-brand liver, but she was smart. She was clever, insightful. And despite her questionable parenting and her obvious daddy issues, she still loved Morty and would’ve definitely done something to separate the two by now. She wouldn’t waffle guiltily like Summer. She would rush in, maternal guns blazing, and demand explanations, regardless of the tears that would inevitably cloud her vision, the heartbreak that would choke her throat.

Her dad would be much the same, although he’d probably discover the truth by virtue of his own misfortune and incompetence alone. He’d probably somehow stumble in at literally the most inopportune time and get smacked with the gross reality right then and there, catching his father-in-law and grandson boning on the kitchen table or something. 

And, yeah, he might’ve been a spineless wuss with a head too big for his brain, but he had a good grasp of basic fatherly concepts. He was a nurturing guy by default who’d _eagerly_ jump on anything that would ruin Rick’s standing within their family. He’d pull Morty aside and keep the boy far away from Rick’s incestuous grasp, condemnation on his tongue and a cop at the door.

Summer was probably the only one in the family who’d stop to think about the duo’s relationship long enough to stay quiet about it. To stop and smell the rancid-ass roses and see the good it brought them. To read into it and torturously over-analyze it like it was some fucking contrived classic lit novel she just got assigned in fucking English class. 

So, what the hell? Why? Why was everything going so smoothly?

Summer found out the hard way one day, and, honestly, she didn’t know what she had expected. Like, of course. 

Of course they’d use the memory gun.

She was minding her own business when she caught the gun in action, carrying a small load of her laundry over to the garage. She’d gotten period blood on her favorite pair of jeans and she’d spilled soda on like, five of her cutest tops. It was an impromptu laundry sesh because the next morning qualified as a fashion emergency. She was going on a double date with her crush and his new girlfriend, dragging along the guy she started going out with to make her crush jealous, and she needed to look hot and unattainable to adequately remind him what a mistake it was not to pick her.

Unfortunately, before she could even round the corner, there was a brilliant flash of familiar white light. Her dad’s voice rang out, stuttering, and she managed to reach the garage door in time to witness him fall on his ass right in front of it. Stars swam before his eyes.

She called out to him and kneeled down to help him, dropping her laundry in concern. Looking up, she found Grandpa Rick standing in the garage, dispassionately tucking the memory gun away in his lab coat. Morty was by his side, hanging onto Rick’s arm and murmuring a troubled, _“Aw, geez.”_

“What happened?” Summer asked, and Rick just shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

“He, he saw something he shouldn’t have,” Rick said. “Trust me, Sum-sum; i-it’s for his own gooURGHDd—his own—he’ll be happier this way, the nosy fucker.”

Summer was about to ask more questions, but then she noticed the way Morty seemed to fumble nervously with the fabric of Rick’s coat, noticed the suspicious, barely-there bulge between his shifting legs (ugh gross), and the rosy tint to his cheeks. She saw the irritated tic in Rick’s jaw and sensed his obvious frustration, evident in the slight twitch of his unibrow. That’s when it hit her: her dad walked in on something. Jerry probably ambled his way in and cockblocked them before they could really even start anything, but after well enough into whatever they were doing that it got compromising.

Maybe they were making out and Jerry saw. Maybe Rick was telling Morty precisely what he’d like to do to the boy once they were alone. Maybe Rick said _I love you_ and he couldn’t bear the thought of someone like Jerry witnessing such a vulnerable side of him, because it was a sight meant only for his precious, beloved grandson. 

Maybe it was all of the above.

Jerry blinked, still a bit dazed. He looked around him, spotting Summer by his side and Rick towering over him. “What am I doing here?” he asked, brows furrowing.

Rick leveled his gaze on the man and sighed. “Fuckin’ fish-brained idiot can’t even rem-remember his own shit while he’s still swimming in it,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes. He played off his annoyance well, despite the fact that this time Jerry’s transgression wasn’t actually his fault. “And to think _I’m_ supposed to be the demented old man here. Well, _Jerry,_ y-you got whatever the fuck annoying crap you came down here to ask me for.”

“I—I did?”

“Yeah. A-And _now_ you’re going to sit your ass back in your room and—I don’t, I don’t fuckin’ know. T-Twiddle your thumbs or some shit. Whatever it is you waste time on when you’re not bugging _me.”_

Summer watched as indignance filled her father. The same prideful, embarrassing kind of indignance that kept him from questioning anything purely so he could seem like he was still in charge. The exact kind Rick definitely knew he needed in a situation like this. God, her dad was so predictable.

She rose from her position kneeling beside him as he stumbled to his feet, sputtering. “You’re not the boss of me, Rick. You can’t order me around. This is my house, and I do what I like!” He shouldered past Summer, before stopping to shout over his shoulder. “And thumb twiddling is a perfectly acceptable pastime!”

Jerry huffed before disappearing further into the house. Summer groaned in irritation and reclaimed her forgotten laundry.

That night she questioned the merits of memory, of remembrance, and she wondered if it was worth it to remain as she was. Ignorance is bliss, so they say. The bite of knowledge would sting long after learning. She was glad her parents wouldn’t have to know the truth.

But then she wondered how it felt to be _them_ , to be Rick and Morty and in love, toying with their family’s minds just so they could have their cake and eat it too. She wondered how Morty, as soft and emotional as Rick undoubtedly wasn’t, dealt with all this. Did he feel guilty? Did he ache? Did he regret?

Despite how short their moments of clarity were, it must’ve hurt all the same for her parents to discover the truth each time. For those scant few seconds before Rick pulled the trigger, their worlds must’ve come crashing down, realization hurtling into them and burning up like dying stars. Imagine having to watch that, over and over. Their mortification, their disgust, their devastation. The flash. Their blank, hollow indifference.

Did the taking feel the same each time or was Morty turning into his lover, dissociation mounting with every stolen memory?

Summer felt like fading. She felt like forgetting.

She did her biology homework instead.

* * *

Her time came unexpectedly. It was a pretty unassuming day up until a certain point. 

Jerry had recently adopted a newfound, midlife crisis-esque fascination for the culinary arts, centered specifically on various noodle dishes and niche pasta-related preparation methods, and he heckled Beth and the rest of the family into _‘supporting his dreams.’_ Summer only agreed to come because they also promised to drop by the mall at some point, but Morty and Grandpa Rick predictably opted to stay home. Rick cited some very important experiments he needed Morty’s small hands for ( _“I need his little weenie-boy fingers to reach behind the—“; “Wait, my what?”_ ; _“Those—Your little fuckin’... Weenie Hut Jr. lookin’-ass phalanges, Morty. Christ, d-don’t interrupt.”_ ), before pulling the boy away from his mother’s grasp and herding him into the garage before she could even put up much of a fight. 

It wasn’t like she would, though. Morty was Rick’s little buddy, his companion and partner in crime. They did their own thing all the time. No big surprise they chose to do the same then, too.

As soon as Morty’s panic-stricken cries of, _“Holy shit—wh-wh-what the fuck is that, Rick?!”_ started up, the family started making their way out the door, shrugging their wordless see-you-laters. As Beth locked the door behind them, though, Summer could hear haphazard, frantic stomping reverberate from out the garage before something viscous, purple, and slimy splattered all over the dining room window. It slid slowly down the glass, wailing incoherently in agony. The splat it left behind kind of looked like a pair of testicles. 

Summer, Beth, and Jerry promptly chose to ignore it. They’d address it later if it was still there by the time they got back.

It wasn’t, but that wasn’t the issue.

Upon popping open the trunk of the car to get all their starchy groceries, they discovered that the massive, twenty-pound bag of garlic powder Jerry insisted on buying got punctured. A sizable hole sat right on the side of the bag, allowing garlic powder to coat all their groceries. Summer’s new clothes from the mall were garlic-free, thankfully. She had the foresight to store them neatly in the back seat, separated from her dad’s awful high-carb ingredient hoard.

After seeing the mess, Beth had to pause, take a deep breath, and somehow gather the willpower not to castrate her husband right then and there. Since the garage doors were shut, she gave Summer the keys to the house and told her to go in through the front, grab a handheld vacuum, and see if the family’s scientific dynamic duo were still at home. Beth and Jerry would remain to assess the damage.

Summer unlocked the front door, entered the living room, and walked right into a fucking disaster.

“Is—Is that my new _Party Sparkle_ iridescent baby pink MAC Grand Illusion glossy liquid lipcolor?!” she cried, horrified.

On the carpet, right in front of the fucking TV, were Morty and Grandpa Rick. They were both half-naked for some godforsaken reason, and Morty was sitting on top of Rick, who was sprawled carelessly right next to the broken coffee table. Summer caught them right in the midst of what seemed to be a fervent struggle, where Morty was trying to pour the last of the _Party Sparkle_ lip gloss he had all over Rick’s face. 

He wasn’t unscathed. Neither of them were. Bright splotches of color littered both of their torsos, descending lower until it painted their belts. Puckered lip stains, smudged handprints, glitter, and sparkles adorned their lithe bodies like rich pigments upon a couple of flushed, heaving canvases. The floor was worse, littered with random splotches, empty cosmetic containers, and crushed lipstick wands. It was a war zone, and it looked like Summer’s makeup was their ammunition of choice.

“H-Holy shit. Is that what it’s called?” Rick rasped, his lips a suspicious shade of coral with gold accents. “That’s—That’s a fuckin’ mouthful.”

“Did you guys steal like, all my shit? What the fuck?”

Morty’s lips were an annoyingly flattering shade of sloppily applied peach-rose, smudged with streaks of fuchsia that reached the height of his cheeks, and they glistened as he spoke. 

“Well, it’s—i-it’s not what it looks like. There’s a-a-a good explanation for this,“ he said. He shifted anxiously on his perch atop his grandpa’s hips. Rick winced and bit back a moan at the motion, and Summer finally realized that Morty must’ve been sitting right on top of a fucking _boner._ Their mother’s father’s goddamn boner. _“_ We were just—“

Wait. Morty had one too. 

_They were going boner to boner._

Summer gagged and threw her hands in front of her, fruitlessly blocking the sight in front of her as soon as she noticed her family members’ arousal. “Oh _gross!_ Ew! Ew! Oh my _god!”_ she shouted. _“Here,_ guys? Really? Now? In the fucking living room?!”

“I—We weren’t—“

Morty tried to move away, but Rick was still absentmindedly holding onto his wrists from their earlier struggle, making him lose balance. He sank back into place and inadvertently ground down on Rick’s crotch in the process. Rick groaned, choking out an earnest, _“Fuck,”_ before his hands quickly dropped to Morty’s waist, steadying the boy to prevent anymore movement. Before he could stop himself, though, he thrust shallowly up against the weight on his dick, reflexively seeking greater friction. Morty gasped, whimpering.

Summer screamed. “Oh my god, stop! Don’t fucking say anything! No more sounds out of either of you!” she demanded. “I think I’m traumatized!”

“Take a chill—take—ch-chill the fuck out, Summer. It’s not like we’re completely butt naked—“ Rick began, but Summer didn’t like the sight of the warmth riding high on his cheeks, the slightly lubricious look in his eyes. The way he couldn’t seem to keep those eyes off her underaged little brother.

She shushed him emphatically.

“Oh, so you want me to _thank_ you for doing the bare minimum and keeping your pants on in a high-traffic area? Like, this is totally not okay—“

From outside, Beth’s voice called out, distant. “Summer! Did you find that vacuum yet?”

Summer froze, suddenly remembering what she came in for. 

And the fact that she left the front door wide open. 

“No, Mom! Not yet! But stay back, I’ll find it!” she shouted back. Whipping back around to glare at her disgusting incestuous relatives, she gestured to the mess they made. “You two! You guys better clean this shit up and get yourselves together. Mom and Dad are right outside with a metric fuckton of pasta, and you do _not_ want them to catch you like this.”

She rushed forward, shooing them harshly, valiantly ignoring the state of both their bodies. “Up! Get up!”

“Jesus—okay—“

“Aw, geez—alright—“

They complained in unison, swatting her hands away, whining. Saying she was being a real bitchy killjoy or a mood killer or whatever and that she should’ve knocked or something (seriously, Morty? Knocking on her own house’s front door? Who does that?), but she couldn’t care less. Summer did not want to have to watch her parents’ memories get erased again. She _already_ lost some of her cutest cosmetics. She refused to allow this once-pleasant day to get any worse.

“I’ll cover for you two so wipe all that makeup _—that_ _expensive, clearly off-limits, luxury brand makeup—_ off. I mean, _god_ , look at yourselves. It’s obvious you horny losers were seconds from eating out each other’s asses or something. Which, by the way, again: _here?_ Of all places? Fucking gross, like, get a room you morons.” 

She found Rick’s lab coat tossed over the back of the couch, and she threw it at him along with his thin long-sleeve. Morty’s t-shirt was unsalvageable, lying crumpled a few feet away on the floor. It was drenched in weird purple goo and crusted with matte lipstick, so she threw it in the washer. They stayed oddly passive, standing in place while she moved, occasionally making small, snide comments that she was too peeved to dignify with a response (like, _“Wh-Who needs this much lip gloss?”_ and, _“You never wear any of this stuff a-anyway, geez,”_ and, _“W-We did you a favor, Sum-sum. Those dramatic colors over, over the reddish undertones of your valley girl complexion? That sales associate f-finessed the shiiit out of you.”)_

(She didn’t ignore that last one, actually. She flipped Rick off, because fuck him.)

Summer grabbed the handheld vacuum and leveled the couple with a hard stare. “I’m going to help Mom, but we’re def coming back. Clean up! You have like, three minutes tops,” she said. “Ugh, you guys are _so_ making this up to me later.”

Rick rolled his eyes, while Morty sulked. They mumbled their reluctant _‘okay’s_ and _‘whatever’s_ and Summer set off.

She stomped over to the front door, purposeful, but as soon as she left their line of sight, she paused. She stopped right before grabbing the door handle, and the open expanse of the lawn sat demurely before her. 

The fight drained out of her, her bold facade slipping from her tense shoulders. She reacted to them the only way she knew how, after all. As the inconvenienced older sister. The vogue-worshiping teenager.

Outside, she could hear her parents arguing about the pungent scent of garlic. Inside, she could hear Morty‘s familiar voice drift steadily up, seeking his grandfather’s council.

“Rick, I-I think she… I think she knew.”

“Yeah,” Rick sighed. He sounded much like Summer felt, shedding his earlier snark for something a bit more solemn. “Yeah, no shit she knows, Sherlock. No shit.”

“No, I mean… Knew. Sh-She _knew._ Before walking in on us—before, before today.”

“Oh.”

A sliver of trepidation crawled its way up Summer’s spine. 

“So, uh, what’re we going to do?”

" _You’re_ not going to be doing anything, Morty. Don’t—D-Don’t worry. I’ll… Just, don’t worry, babe. Grandpa’s got it.”

“Are you erasing her memory, Rick?”

A second or two. No reply.

Then, a deep breath.

“Maybe.”

Summer stepped out and closed the door behind her. 

* * *

The pantry and all the cupboards were full to bursting with pasta and other noodle-related paraphernalia by the time they managed to get the car completely unloaded. Summer’s parents both reeked of garlic, but while Beth just looked world-weary, Jerry looked absolutely ecstatic. As soon as everything had been settled, he immediately set to puttering around in the kitchen, effectively dislodging Beth from her customary dinner-making duties.

They walked in oblivious to Summer’s earlier discovery. The living room proved immaculate upon inspection. Morty and Grandpa Rick looked completely normal. How they managed to get their shit together in time, Summer could only imagine.

Summer knew something was coming, and that awareness made it difficult to deal. It was times like these she was glad she was known for burying her face in her phone, because it would’ve been otherwise impossible to shoulder the heavy weight of her grandpa’s glare, her little bro’s sidelong glances.

They were waiting for her to say something and snitch on them, but her lips were sealed shut.

After dinner that night, which consisted of three different pasta dishes (fettuccine Alfredo, mac ‘n’ cheese, and mushroom carbonara, all of which were surprisingly edible—like, who knew Dad had it in him?—but undoubtedly destined to be consumed mostly as leftovers) the family seemed to gather in the kitchen, oddly lively.

Jerry was boasting as he shoveled what they hadn’t finished into tupperware containers, convinced he had truly found his calling in the culinary arts. Beth had commandeered the dishes, and while she was clearly exasperated at his enthusiasm, she still seemed pretty fond. She _did_ manage to find the motivation to support him throughout the day, after all, so she clearly saw some potential in his whimsy. Maybe she was hoping he’d finally contribute to the household somehow, even if it meant they’d be eating nothing but pasta from then on.

Grandpa Rick, as expected, was doing his absolute best to nonchalantly belittle all of Jerry’s efforts. He elbowed Morty a few times after some well-placed zingers, prompting the boy to snicker and come up with some of his own, and together their reckless, cheerful attitudes proved contagious to the rest of the family. Instead of getting bitter and angry, Jerry found encouragement in Rick’s absolute lack of expectation for him, emboldened to improve upon his cooking and make Rick actually give a damn.

Summer occasionally interjected with a few sardonic quips of her own as the conversation continued to flow and segue into different topics. She was determined not to make it seem like anything was getting to her, but it was. It really fucking was.

She knew why Rick was suddenly leveraging his eccentric charisma, why he encouraged this oddly boisterous atmosphere around them. Like, it wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t because he was in a good mood.

He was pushing. Distracting Beth and Jerry, reassuring Morty it’ll be okay, assessing her movements. Summer couldn’t run—couldn’t _not_ enjoy herself—because she loved her family, because otherwise she’d be the odd one out. 

She wanted to shake him, ask him why the fuck he couldn’t just pull out the memory gun and fucking neuralyze her Men In Black-style already. He was deliberating, and waiting felt like hell.

Morty suggested they all go for a movie marathon. Find some weird stuff they’ve never seen before on interdimensional TV. Have fun together. Everyone voiced their agreements, and upon hearing them, Beth had foregone her customary bottle of wine for the night. She opted to supplement it with a mere glass and some microwaved popcorn. She seemed optimistic for once. Blithe. 

Summer wished she could’ve said the same for herself.

As soon as they were all ready, Morty, Beth, and Jerry filtered out of the kitchen, laughing and chatting, before settling down on the living room couch. Rick stayed, quickly diverting his daughter’s inquiries with a, _“Be there in a sec, sweetie, juURPst got to grab something,”_ and rifling through the fridge to seem busy, to give him an excuse to linger behind. Summer was leaning on the counter, looking for all the world as if she’d been too absorbed in her texting to follow.

As soon as everyone else stepped out of sight and it became just them, Rick closed the refrigerator door, turning to face Summer and taking a long swig of his flask. His demeanor completely changed.

Summer’s entire body stiffened, awaiting his judgement, but her fingers kept flying on her keyboard. At this point, all of her attention was on him even if she was desperate not to show it. Her texts devolved into autocorrected nonsense because she couldn’t think of anything to type, confusing the hell out of her friends on the other side of the chat.

There was a beat of silence. Two. Three. Her family’s laughter resounded from the next room and it felt oddly sobering, alienating. They must’ve landed on a comedy or something.

When Rick finally spoke up, Summer’s stomach was in an impossible tangle of a knot and her body buzzed with the need to escape. There was no preamble whatsoever, and he didn’t even name names or establish any sort of context, but she knew what he was going for nevertheless.

“How long?” he asked.

She exhaled shakily. “A while,” she answered slowly, and she tried to make her voice sound as laid-back and uncaring as it ordinarily did. “A few months.”

More silence. Rick seemed to be taking the information in, cataloguing it. The air seemed to shift when he spoke next, and Summer felt her skin bristle at the nature of the non sequitur.

“I could’ve tricked him,” he said. “No, worse,” he chuckled dryly. “Wayy _yyy_ fuckin’ worse. I could be blackmailing him or, or drugging him. He might—he could be brainwashed.”

Her grandpa swayed forward, stepping closer, and although she still wasn’t looking at him, Summer couldn’t keep feigning disinterest. Her fingers trembled as she lowered her phone, training her eyes on the sink across from her. It was dripping a bit. The knob hadn’t been fully turned. 

She wasn’t scared of Grandpa Rick, just disgusted with herself.

“Shit, the things I could’ve done, Summer. A million-and-one ideas, and that’s just off the top of my head. Your—Your brother’s malleable as _fuck._ Impressionable little piece of shit.A-A tiny chip, just under his left ear, Summer. Fucking _microscopic._ That’s all it would take to have him. No one would know the difference.” He belched. Then, he lunged forward, startling her, grabbing her shoulders and forcefully making her turn to face him. “You okay with that?” His voice was an intense, barely subdued rumble between them. “Y-Y-Your grandpa’s an incestuous, hebephilic, fucking over—overpowered _nutcase,_ Summer. Sound cool? Think that shit’s _cute?”_

His grip on her was firm and strong. Her gaze was locked in his own, and the focus churning within his eyes made Summer’s heart stutter. They were hardened, cold. Calculating and stern, lacking the usual careless hysteria he routinely exhibited, the iconic nihilistic torment. He was as present in the moment as she was, and that told her enough, really.

Her grandpa was invested. He was testing her, pointedly callous, purposefully misleading her. It was all to get a rise out of her, because the topic at hand was too important for him to scoff away. 

Summer winced. He was waiting for her to speak, but she couldn’t respond to him properly, couldn’t voice aloud the extent of her own moral depravity.

“Have you noticed, Grandpa Rick?” she asked instead. Her voice was soft, resigned. Drained. His eyes narrowed and she continued, fully aware that her non-answer was an answer of its own. “Have you noticed how much more time passes before you have to refill your flask? How your eyes follow him wherever he goes?” Her arms fell to her sides, phone forgotten. “How he asks you the stupidest shit and you don’t snap back, you just answer?”

He didn’t respond, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You try not to, but I think you do,” Summer whispered. “I do too.”

Another beat of silence, like a breath, a slow, living pulse. Rick released his hold on her, pushing her away. He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Then, he turned back to the fridge behind him, breaking eye contact, and the subsequent relief at the loss of his gaze felt to Summer like the consoling release of a vice.

“I know that it’s him in that head of his. No chips, no drugs, no fear,” she began once more. “You wouldn’t allow anything else, would you?”

He opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a couple of beers. Thumped it back shut. He didn’t immediately acknowledge her question, just popped open a bottle and took a fat gulp.

Halfway around the counter to the kitchen’s entranceway, Rick finally spoke up.

“No,” he burped. “I wouldn’t.”

All that power, but what for?

He’d ruin Morty’s chances of ever living a normal, conventional life, but he wouldn’t actually keep him from living one. He loved the kid too much. Too much to let him go, too much to force him to stay, too much not to give him a choice. 

He was too selfish not to have Morty for all he was. Like a jealous thing, he didn’t want the boy to love him out of anything but his own accord. He craved voluntary devotion, willful indulgence. The deep, gratifying absolution of a heart wholly and freely given.

Now alone in the kitchen, Summer felt sick. She didn’t want to sit on the couch and watch interdimensional cable with her family. She just wanted to lock herself in her room and mindlessly scroll through her Instagram feed. How fucked up was it that one of the sweetest romances she’d ever seen involved her grandpa and her little brother? No, how fucked in the head was she that she could see the sweetness at all? It wasn’t sweet; it was a cosmic farce.

It wasn’t a romance; it was the universe’s shittiest dark comedy.

* * *

Following that exhausting conversation, Summer expected Grandpa Rick to come to her that night. He didn’t wipe her memory right away (not even when he had her alone, which would’ve been the perfect opportunity), so she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. She expected him to portal in while she was still tucking herself into bed, even. He was supposed to be there at some point with some sort of memory device in hand, primed to rid her mind of his godforsaken affair with her little brother. 

He didn’t.

She woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, with every memory still intact. She blinked at the cheerful morning sun filtering into her bedroom, all dazzling and beautiful and annoying, and she realized that it was worse like this. It would’ve been better if she’d been made to forget, because remembering meant Rick thought to trust her. He knew she knew and he didn’t do anything about it, even though it meant giving her the power to wreak domestic havoc on what was clearly one of the most precious things in his life.

She couldn’t turn away, couldn’t pin this on anyone else. She couldn’t run or pretend she didn’t have a hand in this after all. Remembering meant that she was a part of this now. She was an accomplice.

Remembering meant that Rick saw through her indifference and disgust and horror and saw the worst emotion of them all lording over every other instinct, its filthy hands on the reins of her heart, flanked by all of her repugnant sincerity.

It meant he saw her acceptance.

Summer dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and sighed. All of this hit too close to home. It wasn’t as loud and violent as bombing innocent civilizations or committing unrepentant murder. It was repellent in a quieter, more personal way. She wasn’t as desensitized to this as she was to every other horrible thing Rick’s done. Not yet. But there would come a time, she understood, where her morals would eventually warp enough that she wouldn’t bat an eyelid at any of this.

She wasn’t sure if she should look forward to the numbing relief of it or await its arrival like the slow, dawning death it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my first rickmorty fic!!! I had so much fun aaaaaa!! Hehehe
> 
> As a teenaged girl who still doesn’t quite fit regular teen girl stereotypes, writing Summer was both a challenge and absurdly fricken fun lol but I think I ended up blending my own voice into her way more than I should’ve. Alas, ‘tis the nature of self-indulgence LMAO
> 
> Pls don’t be afraid to tell me what you think!! Feedback makes me want to sing, regardless of its content. I hope you enjoyed the ride!! ☺️💕
> 
> Hmu on Twitter if you’d like 😳 I’m [@double_bIind](https://twitter.com/double_bIind) 😳 
> 
> I’m a bit too vanilla (I don’t even curse lol) so I can’t quite engage in explicit discussions (like, the sexy stuff...), but I’d still like to make some friends~


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